THE RISE AND FALL AND PERSISTENT RESURRECTION OF A CURIOUS RECORD COMPANY
3 The Initial Years
When did you first imagine starting a record label?
In 1963 I volunteered to do legal work for Moe Asch at Folkways Records. I was fascinated by his dedication to documenting the folk music of America and of other cultures. I saw him as an unofficial extension of the Smithsonian. Pete Seeger was often in the office, providing support. I was struck by the fact that one could operate a record label with very modest means. The custom pressing plants made it possible to press five hundred LPs, place each one in a standard black jacket, paste a printed sheet of paper over it, and have a finished product. Moe Asch had launched his label in 1945 and devoted his life to this undertaking. When he died in 1983, his catalog contained over two thousand titles, all of which are available today from his successor, Smithsonian Folkways.
What was the purpose in producing your very first record, Ni Kantu en Esperanto, in 1963?
In 1960 I became interested in the international language and was briefly employed as a publicist for the Esperanto League of North America. The record was just an exercise, and I had no thoughts of doing anything beyond that. Ni Kantu demonstrated the sound of the language through poetry, a comedy monologue, and songs. It was marketed to members of the worldwide movement.
Late in 1963 somebody told you to go hear Albert Ayler play up in Harlem. What was that all about? Who was that person?
Granville Lee visited me. He had attended high school in Cleveland with another student who was enormously talented. They had formed a band and all through school they were performing professionally. He insisted that I hear his friend, who was going to play at the Baby Grand Cafe in Harlem on the following Sunday afternoon, between Christmas and New Year’s. He said, “I won’t be in town, but you can go; please, you must go hear him.” He had said enough to intrigue me.
It was snowing when I trudged uptown from 90th Street to 125th Street. The Baby Grand was a popular piano bar. A few people were sitting there, wearing their coats, because the heat had not been turned on. The bartender busied himself polishing glasses. Elmo Hope was at the piano, with his trio, on an elevated stage. I sat and listened to them. Several minutes later, a small man in a gray leather suit, holding a large saxophone, brushed by me and jumped up on the stage. He had a black beard, with a little patch of white in it. He was not introduced and, ignoring the trio, he began to blow his horn. The other musicians stopped and looked at him. No words were exchanged. Elmo Hope quietly closed his piano, the bass player parked his bass, the drummer put his sticks down, and they all sat back to listen. He was playing solo, and he kept right on playing for twenty to thirty minutes, just a burst of music. It seemed like a second; it was no time at all! Then he stopped and jumped down from the platform, covered with sweat. I approached him and said, “Your music is beautiful. I’m starting a record label, and I’d like you to be my first artist.” A small voice in the back of my head said, “Oh, you are, are you?” He reflected, and then he said, “I’d like that. But I have to do a session in March at Atlantic. After that, I’ll be free and I will contact you.” I was skeptical that I would ever hear from him again.
In June, however, the phone rang: “This is Albert Ayler. I’m ready to record.” Moe Asch, the owner of Folkways, used a small and inexpensive studio near Times Square, so I directed Albert to the Variety Arts Studio. He arrived with his trio: Gary Peacock and his then-wife Annette and Sunny Murray. Gary was slender and austere, while Sunny was a big gregarious bear. There was no discussion. The engineer was lanky, blond, and low-key, one of the owners. They filed into the recording studio, and the session began. The engineer left the door of the control room open, while Annette and I sat outside listening. As the music played, I was enthralled, exhilarated, jubilant. I exchanged glances with Annette and said, “What an auspicious beginning for a record label!” She nodded her head in agreement. Then I found out that it had been recorded monaurally. I was horrified! We had assumed it would be in stereo. In forty-plus years, no one has ever cared. The engineer had done a superb job of miking. The Penguin Guide to Jazz says Spiritual Unity [recorded July 10, 1964] is one of the hundred top jazz records of all time.
Once you started thinking of a label, did you have a sense of what the potential could be?
Not at all. It wasn’t a thoughtful decision, just something I was drawn toward doing.
After the Ayler session, you knew you had one record. What did you do?
I was thrilled with that record, so I was very much charged up with the idea of going forward. I wanted to explore this new music. A few months later, the October Revolution in Jazz gave me an opportunity to meet the community. The festival took place in a tiny café at West End Avenue, a block from where I lived at 90th and Riverside. The Cellar Café was out of business, and there was no electricity. Bill Dixon and Carla Bley had formed the Jazz Composers Guild, which sponsored the festival. Just inside the entrance, Paul Bley was seated at an upright piano, and standing next to him was Giuseppi Logan with a wired-together clarinet. I positioned myself next to them, as it was the only way I could be certain to hear them. The only lighting was from candles on the crowded tables. I met Marion Brown, Burton Greene, Sun Ra, the entire community of free improvisation composers.
Archie Shepp stood on the steps outside, puffing his pipe: I invited him to record for the new label, but he was under contract to Impulse. I invited all of the artists I found. Sun Ra was slated to perform with his Arkestra in a Newark loft. He gave me the address, and I went. I was greatly impressed by his music, and the playing of bassist Ronnie Boykins prompted me to invite him to record. He said he would like to record when he felt ready, and would let me know. We remained acquainted, as he was repeatedly featured on other ESP albums. Ten years later, he informed me that he was ready. It would be the last album made by ESP before it suspended operations for many years [Ronnie Boykins, The Will Come, Is Now, February 1974].
Were you still working as a lawyer at that time?
Yes, I was continually working, struggling, as a lawyer. I had a private practice. I had sought employment with other lawyers, but these were depressing experiences because I knew within myself I wasn’t going to be a conventional lawyer. I wasn’t interested in the kinds of work that lawyers typically performed.
When you started ESP, how did you imagine the enterprise as a business venture? Did you have any particular business models, beyond Folkways? Were you thinking at all as a business?
I just plowed blindly ahead, without giving a great amount of thought to how it would be sustained. I had no model to go with other than Moe Asch and Folkways. He was focused on documenting our culture, and it was clearly a not-for-profit enterprise. It became my calling. It took over from my law practice very quickly, because it was closer to my heart. I wasn’t judicious in my approach to a livelihood or a career.
As the label was coming into being, how did you figure out financing?
I went to my mother, just after I recorded Albert. There was no way I could have gone forward without her help. She came up with the equivalent of a young executive’s salary for two years. ESP was possible because of her; I had no other source of financing. My law practice was skeletal.
Why did you go to your mother about this and not your father?
She was the business head of the family, a brilliant woman, pragmatic, and a Taurus. My father was an artist, and all he wanted to do was sing. He sang for anyone who would listen. If he were in a room with a group of people, he would have to sing. He needed to be the center of attention, and he sang well. One didn’t discuss anything to do with money or business with him.
You asked her for your inheritance at the time. How did you know there was an inheritance?
My parents were prosperous. They had worked hard all their lives. I felt that they would probably be able to provide funding. I wasn’t sure how much I would